


A Wonderful, Wonderful Man

by AlmesivaMoonshadow



Category: Far Cry (Video Games), Far Cry 3
Genre: Abortion Attempts, Apartheid, Chauvinism, Child Abuse, Colonialism, Crimes & Criminals, Exploitation, Father/Son Incest, Gone With The Wind References, Incest, Isolation, Manipulation, Murder, Other, Past Rape/Non-con, Pedophilia, Period-Typical Racism, Period-Typical Sexism, Period-Typical Underage, Racial Segragation, Racism, Rape, Reference to the Police State, Sexual Coercion, Sexual Slavery, Slurs, The Abuser Romanticizing Himself, Villain's Point Of View, Working Class VS Upper Class, Xenophobia, domestic abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-08
Updated: 2016-10-08
Packaged: 2018-08-20 07:18:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8241017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlmesivaMoonshadow/pseuds/AlmesivaMoonshadow
Summary: Cobus Volker often viewed himself as something of an epochal, dashing, sleek hero in the style of a paler, thinner Rhett Butler. Truth of the matter was – the only thing that sparkled bright and true on him were the jewels pinned to his white, silky doublet.





	

The year was 1968.  
The warmest summer he remembered to date.  
Jacobus Johannes Fouché was elected a second state president in South Africa.  
Magnus Malan was appointed as Officer Commanding of the Military Academy in Saldanha.  
The Liberal Party of South Africa was finally banned by the government - thank bloody goodness.  
The national party has won once again – it was the year their segragationist regime continued.  
The “white only” signs were wide-spread in Johannesburg that year – in parks, bistos, the street.  
His trade was blossoming, grander then ever – spreading to Rhodesia, Mozambique.  
He had diamonds on his timepiece, on his dinner-plate, in his goddamn soup.  
The year he became old Joburg’s most eligible, well-desired Dutch bachelor.  
It was also the year Cobus Volker decided to grab her by the hand.  
Possibly never let go again, if he so pleased.

 

 

Thing was, he considered himself something of a hardcore romantic, at first. A gentleman of a noble, pure pedigree spreading back all the way the first colonialist settlers of the late 1600’s under Jan Van Riebeeck – a fact he felt more then proud of on more then one occasion, seeing as how he could trace his family tree at least centuries back. He was certain he had a Viscount or two amongst his ancestry. He read old, vintage classics in his private prep school back in Holland like all rich, gentile, well-bred white boys ought to do. There was a “Gone with the Wind” type of charm, in his opinion, with the Boss’ son falling for the helping-hand house maid. She, of course, didn’t see it that way. Women were difficult and complicated, no matter their race, origin, creed or ethnicity. They were coy in Europe and they were equally as coy down here in Africa. He travelled half of the world and he dared say they were the same everywhere. From Amsterdam to Cairo. Awande was only paid and forced to tolerate him and his family, she made it fairly clear through all the subtle, quiet signals she kept giving him. Rejection, rejection and even more rejection. Even though he had her a thousand times by now she was still rejecting him. She wasn’t allowed to speak. Speaking up and openly rebelling againts his advances meant death and he knew it. She knew too – knew that he knew that she knew. He didn’t like her kind, but she disliked his with an even greater fervour. Her parents, the manor’s older caretakers, some humble, hard-working, coloured, ex-Colombian immigrants had plans to marry her off promptly – he heard one of his many birdies say - to one of the stout, diligent miners that extracted his white, shiny gems. These servants wedded early. Girls – as far as 16 and they were already with child or two, if especially shit-stricken. Rather barbaric, if you asked Cobus. Awande was merely fourteen when he had her ordered to his bedchamber one night, during a drunken stopour. She was unusal. Dark skin and eyes so pale, piercing and green they easily rivalled his own. Her mother and father and brothers had to keep silent if they wanted to keep their accomodations under his roof. It was either the Volker manor or the street. He was neither kind or willing to share her with someone else after several years of an ongoing affair. That’s not how he intended to let his self-made system to function. He changed his darling’s name to Awande from Awanda-Maria Molina because he preffered the sound of it. He didn’t intend a measley thing as human life to stand in his way.

 

He bribed certain men – the biggest, tallest he could find.  
This poor wretches’ own fellow black seasonal mercenaries.  
These fools were willing to sell themselves for scraps of bread.  
They properly beat him to death at the bottom of an excavation tunnel.  
It was supposedly a brawl like any goddamn brawl – accidents always happen.  
The sun is hot, the work is hard, the food is bad – tensions are certain to run high, of course.  
Awande was aware it was his own doing all along – she was no fool – that’s why he fancied her.  
He was ready to finish off each and every other suitor they might find for her henceforth.  
And if they find a way to wed her off anyway – he was willing to be positively medieval  
It was his land, his rule, his territory – he was liking the idea of Prima Nocte.  
Awande Moloi could have a husband and ten little bastards to her name.  
She would still grace his sheets on more occasion’s then her man’s.

 

 

But, outside of being a hopeless romantic, Cobus was also a renowned savage. A cold, brutal, senseless savage. He understood very well, that the year of 1968 was one of the many years he continued raping her. This time, he beat her senseless with his unbuckled belt when he discovered her cabinet filled with herbs, teas and native, home-made, primitive medications to keep herself away from the hassle of staying pregnant with her employer and brining herself the needless complication of a babe’s starving mouth to feed. Nay, in fact, he didn’t discover it. He knew all about it for a great many years now – he simply never gave it much of a thought, busy as he was. The older, plumper household cooks ratted her out. They wanted to suck up to the master of the mansion in order to gain his favour and he let it slide. He loved it when his own servants betrayed each other so readily for the sake of some petty, wortheless advancement amongst the ranks of all the cockroaches beneath his bootheel. The thing he couldn’t pinpoint though, was his reaction. He suddenly wanted her round with his seed the way he never did before. Perhaps it was a defense mechanism. To out-speed any would-be, impovrished, worthless groom that they might find for her. This way – they couldn’t. Nobody would bother. Nobody would dare. Nobody would go for the shamed, fallen woman ripe with the illigitimate scorn of an illicit affair with a white man, no less. With the enemy, as they say. Before he knew it, the maids of the house secretly told him that Awande stopped bleeding altogether. Cobus was happy. In that gleeful, wicked, dirty way the sinful rejoice over their newest scheme at hand. The year of 1968 was the year he rewarded all his sweet, darling singing brids with coffee and chocolate seeds imported from Argentina everytime they shared their hushed gossip with him – the year of 1968 was also the year his men dug out and found the unique, colossal black piece from the red hollowness of the soil that experts, conossieurs, reporters and world-renowed collectors at his celebratory, presentation-oriented cocktail party on his summer Tobacco Plantation affectionately nicknamed the Heart of Africa. The was diamond easily the size of a grown man’s fist and as pitch dark as midnight. Possibly his greatest greatest exploit and the highest-grossing commercial success of Volker Corporation under the Dutch, East India trade-route, to date. He presented it to Awande, after the crowd cleared – when nobody could see him doing it. She tossed it into the trash-bin and spat into his face. He broke her nose for it, even though she was six months pregnant.

 

 

When she gave birth to their son, in 1969 – the world was good.  
Much like it was good for Cobus every year prior.

 

 

The African National Congress holds its first national consultative conference in Morogoro.  
A summit meeting of the leaders of East and Central African States in Lusaka  
The year Awande Moloi officially became Awande Volker.  
He didn’t give a fuck about the bloody law.  
He didn’t care about the police officers.  
He didn’t fear interrogantion or penalty.  
He had this entire country in his backpocket.  
He bribed the priest and held the witnesses at gunpoint.  
She was bound to him forever now – the thread was unbreakble.  
Mothers were best trapped through their children – the irony of life, indeed.  
His own father taught him that through the arranged marriage with his mother – an old custom.  
An ancient tradition spreading back to his grandmamma, grandpappa, his sisters, cousins, everyone.  
He had Awande moved to an downtown villa, on a beautiful, open pasture just outside Johannesburg.  
His hired mercenaries would make certain she’s not seen by anyone, that she cannot run, escape him.  
He decided to give their boy a proper, decent Dutch name – he would have none of her stupidity.  
No son of his would bear a disgusting, coloured name – he would rather put a bullet in his head.  
He named the skinny, barefoot little scamp Hoyt – thought it sounded so very fitting.

 

 

In the year of 1969 he pinned the Heart of Africa to his jacket.  
A gentle, loving, almost grandiose statement from father to son, no doubt.  
But as soon as Hoyt tore his first pair of takkies, Cobus had him whipped bloody.  
Visiting his bedroom after dark and forgetting himself when he left the kid bruised and blue.


End file.
